Near-Life Experiences
by tanith
Summary: On the road with William, Anne, and Zoe. Sequel to "Dry Kind of Love."
1. Prologue

TITLE: Near-Life Experiences

AUTHOR: tanith

RATING: R

SUMMARY: On the road with William, Anne, and Zoe. Sequel to "Dry Kind of Love."

ARCHIVE: It's all yours, just let me know.

FEEDBACK: Need it now more than ever. akirgo@yahoo.com

SPOILERS: Through Older and Far Away for BtVS, and season 2 for AtS, then AU. This installment takes place several months after the end of DKoL.

DISCLAIMER: Some are mine. Most are not. If you can't tell, thenthat's kind of cool.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, I was starting to feel guilty because I promised this and then didn't deliver. So here's the start. This is very much a WIP, much more than DKoL was, so my apologies in advance if chapters take longer. This is just the prologue, though, so I promise an update within the next couple of days.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

This is her day now. Only that's not the right word anymore; days and nights have swapped, and her new life is lived by the moon. Very feminist, she thinks, however irrelevant. So this is her 24 hours, then. This is her life.

She wakes with the setting of the sun, whole body coming awake, fast and sudden. There are no hazy moments between consciousnesses anymore. Her eyes fly open in the dark, and she gives herself a moment to stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks or the little holes in the soft foam tiles. Her mind is inevitably drawn to the image of those same kind of tiles scattered over the charred ground, their edges crumbling to ash, far away in La Jolla. She shakes the memory away, reaches her arm across the empty space between the beds and taps her father lightly on the shoulder.

He comes awake slowly, sucking in unneeded air and yawning. In the back of her mind, she knows this is wrong: he is like her, he should wake as she does. But his waking is instead mirrored in her mother; her parents are tangled together with more than just crumpled bedsheets.

They rise and dress, and walk together to the car under the glow of the streetlamps. She pauses beneath one, letting the yellow light wash over her before continuing on her way.

They drive all night, stopping only for gas and for a half hour break at a middle of nowhere diner where their waitress is invariably named Flo. She comes back from washing her hands to find her parents making out in the booth, bodies pressed against the sticky, plastic cushions. They pull apart, guiltily, when she coughs, but she doesn't say anything, just sits and takes another bite of her burger, extra rare.

Sometimes she hates them.

After their meal, her mom goes off to use a pay phone, and her dad sits sour-faced in the booth, muttering to himself. She slips away, too, ostensibly to wash her hands again, but instead she approaches Flo. Words are exchanged, along with a small scrap of paper. As she heads back to rejoin her parents, Flo pats her on the head and calls her a "sweet little thing."

Once, such a comment would have offended her. Now it just makes her sad.

They pile back into the car, leather sweeping across the seats, and drive on until she begins to feel that warning tingle race up her spine. If her father feels it, too, he doesn't say anything.

They check into another random motel, paying cash in advance for one night's lodgings, no questions asked. Her parents drift off to sleep as the morning comes, but only after the first rays of light are drifting through the blinds can sleep claim her.

And then Zoe Barnet dreams of sun.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

TBC


	2. Chapter One

TITLE: Near-Life Experiences 2/?

AUTHOR: tanith

SUMMARY, ETC.: See previous parts.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A long chapter to make up for the short prologue. Also, some fluffiness to make up for season 6. The flashback takes place several months after OaFA, in my own twisted AU.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The fight for control of the radio is an oft-waged battle, never truly won.

William Barnet is at the wheel ("It is *my* car, after all") but his eyes are not on the road. Instead, they are fixed on Anne's face, her sweet smile causing him to scowl. "If I have to listen to any more of this new age crap..." he threatens, already reaching for the dial.

Anne swats his hand, playfully. "It's soothing," she says.

William looks down at his hand, pale skin tinted red where his wife's fingers connected. "Bloody typical," he mutters. "You can still hit me even though I can't return the favor."

This earns another one of Anne's deceptively sweet smiles. "I'd have thought you'd be used to it by now," she says, and starts humming the new Chips Ahoy! jingle.

Ladies and gentlemen, Zoe thinks, my parents.

"Ooh, turn here," Anne says, cutting off her humming abruptly and pointing out the passenger side window. William turns the car, seizing the opportunity to flip the radio station to 80s rock.

Anne and Zoe's eyes roll heavenward, simultaneously.

This sucks, Zoe thinks. Outside her window, mile after mile of flat, brown farmland slides by. Toto, I think we're still in Kansas. She sighs, letting her head flop back against the seat.

"Dad," she says, "tell me a story."

He turns to look at her, eyebrow arched, slow smile playing across his lips. She smiles back; this is her favorite part of the night, and - aside from the dream - her favorite 20 minutes in every 24 hours. William clears his throat.

"Once upon a time..."

*************

Dawn looked up from her homework as the doorbell rang. Right on schedule, she thought, the corner of her mouth teasing up in a little half-smile. She pushed her schoolbooks away, grateful for the distraction, and went to answer the door.

Spike stood in the doorway, an axe slung over one shoulder. "Hullo, Nibblet," he said. She motioned for him to come inside, and he did, pausing to lean the axe up against the wall by the coat tree.

"Buffy's still in the shower," Dawn said, making her way back into the kitchen. She plopped herself down on a stool, turning to face Spike and wrinkling her nose. "Doublemeat smell."

He nodded sympathetically. He took a glass from the cupboard, filled it at the sink and took a swig.

"There's blood in the fridge," Dawn offered.

"This is fine. Whatcha working on, Bit?"

She made a face. "I have to memorize these lines and then perform the scene in front of the class."

He quirked an eyebrow. "You're in theater?"

"It's for English." Then she laughed. "You're making that, I feel old' face."

He took another sip of water. "Times have certainly changed since I was in school."

"You mean you never had to be Juliet to some pimply kid named Brad's Romeo?" Dawn asked, a wistful expression on her face.

He chuckled. "Can't say I did. But here, let me see if I can help you with this..."

*************

Buffy smiled as she toweled off her hair. Bursts of laughter could be heard drifting up the stairs. Clearly, Spike had arrived.

It had been three months since she had called off their sexcapades. In that time, they'd come to a surprisingly comfortable arrangement: he'd help with Dawn and patrolling, and the two of them and sex would never again be mentioned in conjunction.

What had been surprising, however, was how *nice* it had been. Buffy had always considered (when she considered such things, in other words, rarely) nice to be a rather wimpy word that didn't say very much. But that's exactly what it had been like between her and Spike once all the issues that the s-e-x had dredged up were removed from the equation: nice. Comfortable. Natural. Border-line fun.

Even better, Dawn was smiling again; Buffy'd even caught a glimpse of a genuine grin the other day. And, Buffy admitted to herself, she was happier, too. It was like the first few months after she been brought back, sans the post-resurrection depression. She finally seemed to be getting over that, and now she could talk to him again, genuinely, without pressure. It was good to have someone to talk to.

And good to have a routine, Buffy thought, changing into patrol-worthy clothes. It kept things normal, or as normal as one could hope to get on the Hellmouth. Buffy shoved a stake up her sleeve and trotted down the stairs, smiling slightly at the thought of what passed for normal in her crazy life. Then she saw the scene in the kitchen and stopped cold.

Dawn was standing up on a stool, trying to contain her sniggering behind the pages of a book. Then she seemed to realize that she was supposed to be reading from it, and glancing down at the page, muttered between giggles, "Ay me!'"

Her eyes drifted downward, to where Spike knelt, his arms extended towards Dawn's makeshift balcony like a jester before his king's throne. "She speaks! O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven,'" Spike said, apparently from memory, and in a jarringly different voice, full of Shakespearean flourish.

"O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?'" Dawn managed to get out between further bouts of laughter. Spike gave her a disapproving look.

"You cut me off. Your cue's bosom of the air,' remember?"

"You stopped!"

"I was *taking* a dramatic pause."

At this point, Buffy could contain herself no longer, and burst into a fit of giggles that rivaled Dawn's own.

Spike made his this is me blushing, minus the physical symptoms' face and got awkwardly to his feet. "Er, hi pet," he said. "Just helping the Bit with her English homework, seeing as I'm English, and, er..."

"No, don't stop!" Buffy said, still laughing. "You're absolutely great." She shook her head, as if she was trying to make sense of it all, the mirth still flowing. "I mean, that accent, and the kneeling... You're great. I love you."

There was a moment of utter silence. Then Dawn's book fell from her hand and landed on the floor with a *thunk*. Two pairs of eyes darted quickly to where it had fallen; by the time they looked up again, Buffy had already fled.

Spike raced after her. He tore outside, and in the darkness, was just able to catch sight of her retreating back. He followed, wondering vaguely why she was heading toward the cemetery. Did her own slip of tongue disgust her so much that now she had to go and kill something? Well, better it than me, Spike thought bitterly. But still he ran.

He was so consumed by the need to catch up with her that he never noticed the approaching vampire until it was punching him in the face. He reeled backward, smacking into a tombstone. He looked up at the big vamp in front of him, tasting blood on his lip. Big Ugly thwaped meaty fist into meaty palm and flashed him a toothy grin. Probably smiling at the thought of connecting said fist with my more sensitive bits, Spike thought, followed quickly by, Bugger. He'd left his axe at Buffy's.

"Traitor..." the vampire hissed.

Spike rolled his eyes as he pulled himself to his feet. "Yeah, yeah, I'm a regular Benedict Arnold." He threw a punch that unfortunately had very little effect on the vampire's meaty jaw.

"Who's Benedict Arnold?" the vampire asked, shoving Spike back down to the ground. Before Spike even had time to react, it had him pinned with one large, meaty knee. I shouldn't try to fight when I'm distracted, he thought.

"I'll tell you if you let me go," he said.

"Actually, I don't care," the vampire said, reaching up and snapping a branch off a nearby tree. It hefted this makeshift stake, and Spike was just beginning to feel a flicker of fear when an explosion of vampire dust rained down on him.

Buffy took a step back and let her stake drop casually to the ground. "I care."

Spike pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Do you mean that, pet?" he started to say.

He didn't got beyond "Do y--" before his words were muffled under the onslaught of her mouth. "No more running," she said when she came up for air. "No running ever again."

*************

An odd silence permeates the car once William has finished his tale. Anne is looking at him, worry etched in her features, her eyes practically screaming, "So what are we doing now?" In the rearview mirror, the empty space where Zoe sits stares back at him, mockingly.

"Must all of your stories end with you and mom macking?" Zoe asks finally.

Anne titters, nervously. "They don't *all*," William insists, relieved.

"I mean, before I was born, didn't you guys do anything el--" She cuts off abruptly, head snapping up. "Sun."

Silence again descends. But this is a normal silence, a daily event: the great motel scramble. They are experts by now, and in a matter of minutes, they are pulling into the parking lot of a Motel 6. Zoe collapses almost as soon as they are in the door. Anne makes sure that the curtains are drawn tight before curling up in bed next to her husband. She wraps her arms around his chest, reassured by his quiet, unnecessary breathing. She closes her eyes and tries, unsuccessfully, to sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

TBC


	3. Chapter Two

TITLE: Near-Life Experiences 3/?

AUTHOR: tanith

RATING: R

SUMMARY: On the road with William, Anne, and Zoe. Sequel to "Dry Kind of Love."

ARCHIVE: It's all yours, just let me know.

FEEDBACK: Need it now more than ever. akirgo@yahoo.com

SPOILERS: Through Older and Far Away for BtVS, and season 2 for AtS, then AU. This installment takes place several months after the end of DKoL.

DISCLAIMER: Some are mine. Most are not. If you can't tell, thenthat's kind of cool.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Gawd, this is coming slow. Hopefully, I'll be able to provide more in the next couple of days.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Zoe sleeps like the dead. She sleeps while her parents toss and turn and fail to do the same; she sleeps while they silently and simultaneously give up on ever meeting Mr. Sandman; she sleeps while they slip off to the bathroom and shut the door softly behind them.

Even though they know she sleeps, they still try to be quiet.

William lowers the toilet seat and sits down on the lid. Anne straddles his lap, cupping his face in her hands and taking a moment to stare into his eyes.

"So beautiful," she murmurs. "Always so beautiful."

There is pain behind her words, so he tries to kiss it away. His lips trail across her face, then down her neck. He nestles his head against her shoulder while her fingers slip up under his shirt and trace the pattern of cool muscles. His hands soon move to mirror hers, and they slide one another's jeans down in tandem. They rock together, braced against the cold porcelain, and take what comfort they can.

Outside, Zoe sleeps on.

*************

Roger parks his car in front of the village green and walks across the street to the post office. He doesn't bother to lock the door; the car is a beat-up old Subaru, for which he paid less than $3000. Nobody would want it. He doesn't really want it.

He pushes open the post office door with his shoulder, digging in his pocket with his free hand. He pulls out the small copper key and walks around the back to where the P.O. boxes are. Most of them are empty and unused; who bothers with snail-mail anymore? Roger's own box contains a piddling amount of mail: two envelopes, one informing him that he has just won $15 million (if his code number matches the one selected), the other reminding him to please return "American Gods" to the public library. There is also a postcard. His eyes light up when he sees this, then quickly dull; he shoves the card into his back pocket and exits the post office hurriedly, a guilty expression on his face.

Back in the car, he pulls it free and holds it up against the wheel, hands trembling.

"Roger,"

the postcard reads,

"I'm doing better. Disappointment over what happened in La Jolla hasn't gone away, but Mom and Dad seem to have come up with an alternate plan, although they're being typically tight-lipped. We're heading East now, to visit some old friend of Mom's. I can tell my dad is unhappy about this, even though he tries to hide it, which makes me think that old friend' translates to old boyfriend'. I love that my life has turned into a tour of my parents' exes.

"I'll try to write again as soon as I know more. And don't worry about me getting caught - the rents are oblivious. They've got their own problems, etc., etc.

"Give my best to Sarah.

"Dead and living with it,

"Zoe."

Roger rereads the postcard twice before snapping back into action. With one hand, he starts the car, with the other, he dials Sarah's cell. After three rings, he hangs up; it's their secret code, which makes him feel mildly like a secret agent. Mildly.

He tears off toward home, clutching the postcard against the wheel as he drives. He's in a hurry, so he takes one of the fastest routes possible. Not *the* fastest, though; it passes by Zoe's old street.

Sarah's waiting for him when he gets home; he can see her scooter parked up against a tree. He rushes inside, and she jumps down off the kitchen table where she had been sitting as soon as she sees him. "You heard from Zoe?" she asks, excitedly, and then off his look, adds, "Don't worry. Nobody's home."

He hands her the postcard without another word. She reads it quickly, then flips it back around to the front, pursing her lips. The card is modeled after old fashioned greeting cards: it says "Oklaholma, OK!" in curvy letters filled with jovial little drawings. "The postmark is from Kansas," Sarah says, continuing to study the card, "so she's heading North as well as East."

"You don't know that," Roger says, testily, snatching the card away.

"It's a logical conclusion," Sarah insists. "Here, give it back. Maybe there are more clues in her note."

He hands it back, reluctantly. Sarah reads the message over again, and then stares up at the ceiling, lost in thought, her fingernail tapping against the card. "Old boyfriend,'" she mutters. "I wonder if that could be that guy from out of town who took Anne to lunch when we were in seventh grade. Remember? Zoe was in a foul mood all week because her dad was in a foul mood, and you made all those jokes about secret affairs and then she hit you. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember." He sighs. "Come on, let's go upstairs."

They trudge up to the second floor. "Where's Darren?" Roger asks, passing by his brother's room.

Sarah shrugs. "Note on the fridge said something about Gabe's."

"Good. He's been really nosey lately. I should never have let him borrow my Complete Sherlock Holmes.'"

"At least he's out of his Skateboard Punk' phase."

"True."

Roger opens the door to his room, flinging his backpack toward the bed without looking. Despite the crashing sounds that soon after heard from that general region, Roger sets right to work shoving aside a small bureau. Sarah lends a hand, and soon the bureau is out of the way, revealing a small door in the wall. When his family first moved into this house, Roger had delighted at this addition to his room. "It's so Being John Malkovich'!" he'd remarked, earning eyerolls from everyone present. Unfortunately, it had turned out not to lead to the annals of any actor's brain, instead providing a direct passage to a colony of wasp nests. Every member of Roger's family and all but one of his friends had been stung at one point or another, leading to his parents declaring the crawlspace off limits.

The one friend who had remained sting-free was, of course, Zoe. Roger has to wonder whether this was as innocuous as he had once thought. Leaving Sarah to question the intelligence of opening the door to a well-known wasp pit.

"Are you sure it's safe?" she asks, drawing back a bit.

"I've been using it for months."

"That doesn't make it safe."

"*You've* been in here."

"Fearing for my life every time, yeah..."

He rolls his eyes and opens the door, stooping to enter. Sarah follows, more hesitantly, but when once it becomes clear that there is nary a wasp in sight, she relaxes and takes a seat on one of the ancient beanbags slumped against one wall.

On the other wall, a full color map of the United States is tacked up. Little color push pins are stuck in at various points; Roger plucks one out of an empty jam jar and sticks it in Witchita, Kansas. He says this location out loud as the pin sinks in, and then steps back, letting his hands drop to his sides.

"So we know...absolutely nothing," he says.

"Well, she might be heading to see The Guy Who Causes Foul Moods," Sarah says, with optimism she doesn't feel.

"Yes, and we know exactly where he lives."

"It's a start." And she's completely serious now, her expression grave. "And it's all we have."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

TBC


	4. Chapter Three

TITLE: Near-Life Experiences 4/?

AUTHOR: tanith

RATING: PG-13 - changed because ff.net altered their rules so that R-NC-17 fics don't show up without special settings.

SUMMARY: On the road with William, Anne, and Zoe. Sequel to "Dry Kind of Love."

ARCHIVE: It's all yours, just let me know.

FEEDBACK: Need it now more than ever. akirgo@yahoo.com

SPOILERS: Through Older and Far Away for BtVS, and season 2 for AtS, then AU. This installment takes place several months after the end of DKoL.

DISCLAIMER: Some are mine. Most are not. If you can't tell, thenthat's kind of cool.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for the delay. I was invited to San Francisco, all spur-of-the-moment-like. Great city! Not conductive to my sitting down and writing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The weekly blood run would make for a nice break from the routine, only it's become *part* of the routine. Pull up at some hick-town hospital, sneak in the back door, avoid all the orderlies (*both* of them!), and make off with lots of bags of yummy red goodness. Anne has frequently made it clear that she'd prefer it if they drank animal blood, but butchers willing to cater to their unusual needs are hard to come by in Spot-on-the-Map, USA. It worries her that Zoe is being weaned on human blood.

What worries William is that he can no longer tell the difference between the two.

The little red cooler rides in the back with Zoe, and now she pries it open and takes a blood bag off the ice. She offers it to her father, but he shakes his head. "Not while I'm driving, pet," he says, and she feels that familiar lump of indefinable anxiety form in her chest. She shakes it off by vamping out and tearing into the blood bag with her fangs. She drinks, hungrily; wishing, among other things, that the blood were warm.

They cross the border into Arkansas.

**************

Just outside of Little Rock, William looks down at the dashboard and curses under his breath. Anne looks up from the copy of "Lonesome Dove" she has propped against her knee and glances over. "I thought you said you filled it up," she says when she sees that the gas indicator line is wavering dangerously close to empty.

"Forgot," he growls, but it's a half-hearted growl, bordering on a sigh. He turns off at the next exit, pulling into a Mobil station that sits looking lonesome across the street from a dark, nondescript building, identifiable as a bar only by the neon beer signs alighting its windows.

Anne's eyes light up when she sees it. "Oooh! Maybe they have fries."

Zoe is about to say something withering, like "And you think *I* have gross eating habits," but before she has a chance, her father betrays her by chiming in with, "Will you get me some chicken wings, luv?"

Anne nods. "Zoe, do you want to come with me, or stay here with your dad?" she asks.

"Hmm, noxious gas fumes or a chance to see someone else besides you two for once. Tough choice." She unbuckles her seatbelt, letting it slide back against the door with a clang, and gets out of the car. She starts across the street, not waiting for William and Anne to finish exchanging their "parental look."

Anne catches up to her at the bar door. "Don't go running off like that," she chides. "This place could be dangerous."

"*I'm* dangerous," Zoe mutters, but Anne doesn't hear because at that moment, the sounds of the bar overwhelm them. A jukebox is playing a song with a heavy bass beat that Zoe doesn't recognize, and in one corner, two men are having a loud, expletive-filled argument while a bored looking woman in a black strappy dress looks on. Zoe's stomach twists: these are just the type of men that used to make her cross the street when she saw them coming. Part of her still wants to cling tightly to her mother's arm. But Anne strides confidently up to the bar to order their food, and Zoe reminds herself that she could kill any one of these men before he had a chance to scream.

Her stomach rumbles at the thought, and she has to also remind herself that she just ate.

Meaty fingers tighten around her arm, and she finds herself staring into someone's toothy grin. "What's a pretty little thing like you doing here?" someone asks. His breath reeks of alcohol, and Zoe jerks her arm away. "Did you run away from home?"

*Yes*, she thinks, but she doesn't say anything. She walks to the bar and stands next to her mother. I want to leave, she thinks, but she doesn't say that, either.

"Hey, I was talking to you!" a drunk voice shouts, and fingers are tightening around her arm once again.

Her mother whirls around. "Let go of her. Now."

A meaty hand, twin to the one holding her, smacks Anne across the face. And before Zoe can even register what she's doing, its owner has been pushed up against the bar, both offending hands gripped firmly in her own.

"She said...let go," Zoe hisses, the words slurred against her elongated teeth. The man emits a high-pitched scream, and Zoe feels a tingle of pleasure rush up her spine. She squeezes, and she feels bones crunch. The man screams again.

"Zoe," Anne, holding her bruised cheek, warns.

"It's fine, Mom." Zoe's yellow eyes flash. "I've got it under control." She removed one hand from the man's twisted and bloodied fingers and grips his neck, jerking him forward, her gaze locked on his jugular.

"Zoe, stop!" Anne attempts to pull her away, but Zoe brushes her off like a fly.

"It's okay, Mom," she says, "he deserves it." She pushes his head back, and locks her mouth around his throat. He tastes like dirt and sweat, but her teeth to his vein are a perfect fit, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Hot blood rushes down her throat.

Then leather-clad arms are wrapped around her back, pulling her away. She fights against them, hissing like an animal when she finds they are too strong for her. The arms hold her tightly until she stops struggling. "Take control, Zoe," a calm voice says. "You're stronger than this."

And then everything stills. The bar's patrons all stare at her, their beer forgotten. The bartender stands frozen, holding a greasy take-out bag in his hand. In the corner, the woman in the black strappy dress is sandwiched between the two formerly fighting men, her face buried on one of their shoulders, her hand feeling desperately for the other man's grasp. And on the floor, a man holds his bloody fingers to the bloody hole in his neck and looks at her like she's a monster.

Zoe looks up at her parent's grave expressions and bursts into tears.

William pulls his daughter against his chest and holds her while she sobs. "It's all right, you stopped," he says. Her hands tighten around his shirt. "Come on, let's get out of here." He starts leading her towards the door, pausing only to snatch the bag of food from the bartender's hand.

Anne pulls a twenty out of her wallet and sets it on the bar, then quickly follows them. "Sorry," she says, and the door slams shut.

*************

They make her eat. They force french fries and spicy chicken wings down her throat, and then, with enthusiasm-cloaked desperation, offer her a stick of gum. "Would you like me to tell you a story?" William asks, chewing wildly on his piece of Juicy Fruit. Zoe, slumped against the backseat, shakes her head. No. She doesn't want to hear a story. She doesn't want anything at all.

The car succumbs to silence.

*************

William leans against the hotel room wall, holding Anne in his arms. A few rays of sunlight drift through the tightly closed curtains, but they drown in the darkness of the room. They watch their daughter sleep: a stiff, unmoving lump on the bed - a corpse. "We're losing her," Anne whispers. And they both know it's true.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TBC


End file.
